You Have Me
by bentkitty100
Summary: John gets cheated on, and Sherlock comforts him. But can our favorite high-functioning sociopath hide his feelings for his flatmate? Rated T for language, reviews appreciated. Johnlock, fluffy. Oneshot. Enjoy :D


"Oh, good, you're back," said Sherlock Holmes when he heard the door open and recognized the footsteps of John Watson. "Come here and help me with something."

"Hello to you, too," said John, plopping himself on the couch. Sherlock noticed his voice had a snarky hint to it, but not the jokey sarcasm that John usually used around him. No, this was bitter. Angry. upset. Something had happened… judging from the voice, whatever happened happened recently, and they had been around each other all day, and nothing had happened then… but for the past hour and a half, he had been on a date with… what's-her-face… it happened then.

"What happened?"

"What?"

Sherlock turned to face John, dropping his stack of papers on his desk. "Something unpleasant happened on your date; what was it?"

"You're asking? Aren't you just going to—" John made a gesture.

"No, I'm not going to—" he made the same gesture "—because judging by your voice, facial expressions, and body language, that would just piss you off."

"Since when did you care about pissing me off? Isn't that what you do every day, piss people off?"

"Oh, I pissed Mycroft off today just by taking this case; that's good enough for me. Don't worry, I'll bug you plenty tomorrow. Now, what happened? More of the same 'competing with Sherlock Holmes' crap?"

"Actually, no, this one was… different…"

"What happened?"

"She didn't show."

"What?!"

"I was waiting at the theater for Emily - in case you forgot or never bothered to remember, that's her name, Emily Lewis - anyway, I was waiting for Emily, and she wasn't there, and finally I just went in."

"And then?"

"I saw her… and she was…"

"She was what?"

John didn't respond.

"John, what was she doing?"

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock looked at John's face, the pain in his hazel eyes. He realized instantly that John couldn't say it, that it hurt too much. So he did what he did best - deduce.

And then he knew.

"No…"

John nodded, knowing that Sherlock knew what had happened. Sherlock always knew. "I saw her… them… in a corner…" He broke off in tears.

Sherlock had seen John Watson upset before, but never like this.

"You'd been seeing her for a few months, right? Or am I confusing her—"

John nodded again. "Four," he said quietly.

Sherlock stood up and began pacing around the room, his eyes filled with angry fire. "What a bitch," he said. "What an terrible bitch." He pulled out his gun, and began shooting the wallpaper. "What a horrid, rotten, nasty, terrible bitch."

"Sherlock!" They heard running up the stairs, and Mrs. Hudson entered the room. "What on earth is going on?"

"Bitch!" he shouted, shooting at the wallpaper. "Slutty little bitch."

"Sherlock Holmes, there will be none of that talk, and stop shooting my wallpaper. I'm putting it on your rent."

"Call Emily Lewis and make her pay; this is her fault."

"Emily Lewis? Isn't that—"

"Yes, now shut up and go away."

"John, what—"

"I said, _shut up and go away, Mrs. Hudson!_"

Mrs. Hudson sighed, and said "I'll make tea, if you'd like."

Sherlock took a breath, trying to calm himself. "That's very nice of you, but I'll make it if John wants some. Now please, for the love of God, leave us alone."

"All right, all right." She left the room, closing the door.

Sherlock put the gun down, and sat down on a chair near John, but he was still seething. "I don't care much if your girlfriends insult me, but standing you up and then cheating on you is absolutely unacceptable."

"Since when did you care?" John asked again.

"It's not alright to do that!" said Sherlock. Then he muttered under his breath, "_And I care about you, John_."

"What was that?"

"And it's just wrong."

"Oh," said John, falling for Sherlock's lie. He sighed, lying down on the couch. "I just can't believe she'd do that."

"I can't, either," said Sherlock. "But I do think you need to stop."

"Stop what?" asked John, pushing himself up a bit to look at Sherlock more directly.

"Having girlfriends."

"I should stop having girlfriends?" John looked confused.

"You heard me. Stop having girlfriends."

"But why?"

"You've had eight girlfriends since we became flatmates. Seven of them dumped you, and now this. And every time, you've come back upset."

"So?"

"So, I don't want you to go through that."

"What's it matter to you?"

For a while, Sherlock had been feeling something different about John Watson. He thought about his friend all the time, and how he might like him as more than a friend, more than a colleague, more than a flatmate. But seeing him in pain like this… it hurt, really hurt, and he wanted to murder that Emily Lewis for what she did. Better yet, he wanted John… all to himself. So maybe telling him to stop having girlfriends was selfish, but it was what was best for John anyway, right?

"I need you…" said Sherlock. Then, realizing what he said, he added on. "I need you; you're the only person who works with me instead of making me work with them. And you're my blogger." He cracked a smile.

John smiled. "I am your blogger."

"And I love you—" Sherlock caught himself "—as my blogger. Even if you come up with ridiculous names for my cases. And you're a great partner." He smiled slightly at the sort-of pun he had made. "You look tired, John," he said quietly. "And it's past midnight. Go to bed."

John pushed himself up to sitting, and shook his head. "No, wait, didn't you want me to help you with something? With your case?"

"No, it's fine. Go to bed." Sherlock turned away and sat down at his desk.

"But your case—"

"Damn my case! I only took it to annoy Mycroft; you know that."

"And annoying Mycroft isn't important to you?"

"No, it is, but not right now. Keeping myself from murdering Emily Lewis, on the other hand, is, as is making sure you don't go crazy. I need my blogger."

"Since when did you become so nice to me?"

"_I care about you, John_," he whispered again, not intending for John to hear.

"What was that?"

"It won't last long," said Sherlock, covering his tracks. "So don't get used to it." He pulled out his violin and began tuning it.

John laughed. "I won't, I promise. Oh, and can you pass me my laptop?"

"Why?" asked Sherlock.

"I figured I might blog about what happened."

"You're going to blog about Emily?"

"Yeah. My therapist said I should blog about everything that happens."

"Isn't that the therapist Mycroft told you to fire for a misdiagnosed case of PTSD?"

"Yes, and I haven't fired her."

"Well, are you going to trust the therapist's suggestion to blog or my brother's to fire her? Actually, scratch that, dumb question. I'd trust the therapist any day. But honestly, do you really want to blog about this right now?"

John sighed, and laid back down. "No, not really. I just thought—"

"You thought that your therapist would want you to. Well, who the hell cares what your therapist says?"

"Apparently, not you," said John. "Although, seeing as you don't care about anyone, that doesn't say much."

The words stung. _If only he knew,_ thought Sherlock. _Oh, John Watson, if only you knew how much I care about you._ "So do you still want your laptop?" Sherlock tried to change the subject.

"No, I'm fine, thanks. I'm going to make some tea. Want some?" John sat up again, and started to stand.

"I'll make it; you rest."

John grinned, lying back down. "I could get used to this. You being nice to me and all. I would be perfectly fine with it being like this all the time."

"I would—" Sherlock started. Damn it! he thought. That's the fourth time tonight. Thinking once again on his feet, he said"I would get used to it, too." He walked into the kitchen, hoping he wouldn't give anything away.

He wouldn't really mind it if John knew his feelings for him, but he couldn't tonight, not after this whole Emily thing. Someday, he'd say something. But for now, he had to just keep quiet. It wasn't at all an easy task.

"Thanks," said John when Sherlock handed him the tea. "Do you mind if I just sort of hang out in here for awhile?"

"Not if you don't mind that I'll be playing the violin."

"Not at all. I like it, actually. Are you trying to think about the case?"

"Didn't I already say damn the case? No, I just feel like playing."

"Fine by me," said John, sipping his tea.

Sherlock was rather glad that John was staying. He wanted to play for him... it was about all he could do, really.

So he played, and John listened. And he smiled slightly, because he got to just look at John, without anyone caring or noticing.

At around one in the morning, he noticed a slight change in the room, in John's movement and breathing. Sherlock walked over to John and could instantly tell that he was sound asleep on the couch, and had been for about ten, fifteen minutes.

_What now, _Sherlock wondered_. I could wake him up, or I could leave him here... or I could carry him..._

He decided that carrying John to bed was a bad idea... but should he wake John up?

Eventually, he decided that the couch wasn't very comfortable.

"John," he said, shaking him awake.

John rubbed his eyes, eventually opening them. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock reached a hand out to John. "Come on, get up."

"Why? What now?"

"You don't want to fall asleep there."

"Oh." John reached up, taking Sherlock's hand and causing the detective to be overwhelmed by emotions. As John stood up, Sherlock just couldn't resist softly squeezing his hand.

John didn't let go after standing up. He continued to hold on, maybe even holding tighter. Sherlock's heart raced, but then he saw the shakiness in John's legs. Like he couldn't stand up on his own.

Three... two... one...

John's knees buckled, and he collapsed.

"John!" said Sherlock, his heart now racing with fear. He caught John under the arms, and pulled him up.

"Sherlock…" John's consciousness was already slipping away; already his hazel eyes were closing. "I don't think I can stand…" He started to fall again, but Sherlock caught him.

"I've got you," said Sherlock, sensing John's fear of falling. "Hold onto me. You won't fall." John threw his arms around Sherlock's neck, clinging to him. Sherlock grinned at this, and wrapped his arms around John's back, relishing in this moment of closeness. He felt his hand crawling up towards John's head, and he wanted so desperately to run his fingers through the blond hair.

He would've stayed in this position forever, but he couldn't, knowing that John needed to rest. But he didn't want to let him go, for fear that he'd never have a moment like this again. He was pretty sure that John was only in his arms because he couldn't stand on his own; tomorrow, this would be over, and they'd just be flatmates, maybe friends.

Eventually he came to a compromise. He sat down, and then laid down, on the couch, still holding John close, so the two were lying down together on the couch, John's head resting against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock smiled at the man sleeping in his arms, and finally did something he had wanted to for a long, long time. Hoping beyond hope that John wouldn't wake, he buried his face in John's soft hair, and kissed the top of his head.

"Why do you need a girlfriend, John?" he whispered, his face still in John's hair. "You have me. I'm here for you, and I'm never going to leave, and I'd never cheat on you. Why can't you just love me the way that I love you?" He felt heat build up behind his eyes, and the tears came forward, slowly slipped down his cheeks and into John's hair. "I love you," he said, his voice shaking ever-so-slightly through the tears. "I love you so much."

He held John closer, tighter, running his hands through John's hair, tears still streaming down his face. He could feel his heart racing, faster and faster, and in a moment of unscientific delusion, thought that holding John closer might slow his heart rate, but when he tried that, it just made his heart pound faster and faster in his chest.

And eventually, he didn't care. He didn't care that he was going against all of his principles as a sociopath, going against all logic and reason, didn't care that John would wake up eventually and be pissed beyond pissed. Because right then, in that one moment, John Watson was sleeping in his arms.

And that was all he needed.


End file.
